


The Bride of Christ

by TheNoblePrizers



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1910s, Alabama, Christianity, Crime, Crucifixion, Gen, Gender Bender, Huntsville, Knutby, Murder, Religion, southern
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9197174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNoblePrizers/pseuds/TheNoblePrizers
Summary: A Sherlock Holmes short story, set in Alabama in the 1910s. Sherlock's gender is altered, and her name is Sherry. Together with John Watson, she investigates a missing person case and gets tangled up in mess of religious fanatics, inbred moonshiners and incompetent policemen.





	

It seemed like the summer would go on forever; the heatwave of August 1915 in Alabama had taken new heights. Even before the sun had risen over the mountains, the temperature had reached 95° Fahrenheit. Several yellowhammers, coloured in black and brown, flew across the sky. There were no buildings or humans in sight, the only thing to be seen was the action of the wild nature and its creatures. And then, the mellow sounds of nature were interrupted by the sound of banjo strumming from the whitewashed porch. I did not know that it would be like this when I answered the advertisement in the newspaper for a room in a big house at the end of Old Baquer Road in Marleybone County. Despite her odd quirks and her fondness for banjo playing, I actually did like sharing a house with Sherry Holmes. I figured some ham and eggs would convince her to give up that wretched strumming for now.  
She was sitting next to me, enjoying her morning coffee, with no intention to have a morning chat. Her breakfast was sacred and she was in no mood to be disturbed. Nevertheless, a matter of some importance had been brought to my attention earlier, and it was necessary to break the peace so I could fill her in.

“We received a call,” said I.  
“Do not disturb me with these feeble matters at such an early time,” she took another sip from the coffee, disregarding that it had gone cold.  
“But Sher, there is something rather peculiar about this case”, muttered I, “something does not add up here.”  
She looked up from her stale eggs with intrigued eyes. I knew how to hook her interest.  
“They’re called Bernard and Nancy Baker. Apparently their daughter has gone missing. Or not missing, just out of reach so to speak. They have not heard from her in over two weeks now.”  
“How is this a concern of ours? The police have a missing persons department, I can give them the number.”  
“The strange thing is that the last thing the parents heard from her was a message form of obscure letter. They thought nothing of it at the time, but it might mean something considering it is the last they have heard from her in such a long time.”  
“Call them and get them to come here, and tell them to bring the letter. I have a feeling this might tickle my fancy.”

When the automobile showed up at our driveway, Sherry strolled out to meet the Bakers.  
”So your ride from Huntsville went smoothly?” asked Sherry.  
“We never told you we lived in Huntsville, how did you know?” said the woman.  
“It is quite obvious,” sighed Sherry, “I noticed the soil on your shoe, it is podsol, a type of soil only found in coniferous forests. Taking that you showed up at our doorstep two hours after my associate’s call, you could not have been further away than 52 miles. The only coniferous forest found within a radius of 52 miles from here is in the outskirts of Huntsville, and since the soil is still moist and dark, you must have spent time there within the last twenty-four hours. And what on earth would anyone do in Huntsville on a day as warm as this one, unless they lived there?”  
“We can see that we were right to contact you, Miss Holmes,” the Mrs. Baker continued with relief.  
“Let us walk inside, this heat is immense,” suggested I. I could see that the mother was suffering in the sun, stains of perspiration already forming on the back of her shirt, and any man of the father’s circumference would undoubtedly get a heat stroke within minutes in the high noon Alabama sun. 

Once inside, they seemed immediately more at ease, taking a seat in the worn couch Sherry refused to throw out.  
“We must tell you dear, we are good American Christians. God knows, when we found out our daughter was to marry that fanatic Mr. Fischer, we were not able to give her our blessing.”  
“We should never have let her go through with it!” cried the father, slamming his fist against the coffee table. “I was against it from the beginning!”  
“Calm down, Bernard, think about what the doctor said about your blood pressure.”  
“I know love, I know. But she is our only daughter,” sobbed the big man.  
“Tell me about this man, Mr. Fischer,” interjected my companion in a calm voice.  
“Heaven knows it is an odd man,” started the woman,” but ooh, he is a handsome one. We noticed that something was strange about him when we first met him outside the parish house, when our beloved daughter brought him to meet us. At the time we thought nothing of it, but he would not join us for the sermon, or even for coffee afterwards. Turns out his beliefs does not allow him to blend with Christians of other varieties than his own.“  
“So he is a religious maniac,” replied Sherry, “nothing too odd about that”.  
“No, not really, but then there were of course other things, like the wedding.”  
“What about it?” Sherry asked.  
“Well, we weren’t invited, to begin with. Our daughter has always been stubborn, but to not invite her own parents! And afterwards we heard that there had been no feast, no speeches, no presents. Christ, not even a cake!”  
“Can’t have a proper wedding without cake,” muttered Bernard.  
“Watson mentioned a message, pray would you be so kind to show it to us?” said Sherry, without giving the wedding arrangement any thought.  
Nancy handed over a piece paper with the words:

He celebrates God. Is now happy, sleeping at night, with heaven in her. Me, myself, I. Blessed I am, don’t be worried. 

“Religious gibberish,” sighed I. “Do you make any sense of it?”  
“That is the strangest thing, our daughter was never into all this holy business. Yes, she loves Mr. Fischer, and wants him to be pleased, but it has never been a part of her. This message is not something that she would usually write, and now that she won’t answer our calls….We’re worried something might be wrong.”  
“Or, maybe she finally caved under the pressure,” thought I to myself. I had seen it happen many times during my deployment in Afghanistan; rational men becoming infatuated with the promise of a heaven, when all they saw on earth was hell. 

Sherry, who had been seated silently for some time, now rose.  
“It does sound rather remarkable. Perhaps it would do us good to pay Mr. Fischer a visit. Let’s take a drive to Huntsville, Watson.”  
“Me and my husband would like to thank you for your time this afternoon,” said Nancy.  
“Please give us a call as soon as you come up with something.” 

We got into our T-Ford and headed towards the plantation. When we arrived in Huntsville two hours later, the old plantation seemed to be asleep still. The main house was still magnificent, with its white pillars and the huge porch welcoming, with colourful flowers placed on the small white painted tables. The gardening in general was immaculate, plants thrived all over, except for one patch that looked as though it was just recently dug up. As we approached the building, a man in a white linen suit opened the door and stepped out. He was indeed a handsome man, broad of shoulder and slim of waist, with a suave demeanor about himself. He was a middle aged man, the sunlight made it possible to notice a few grey streaks in his otherwise brown hair. His face seemed friendly, those blue eyes of his gave a remarkable expression of calmness. He had an air of man who owns a plantation, not the kind of man who works the fields; the only thing that spoke of manual labour was a barely noticeable bit of dirt under his otherwise well manicured hands.

“Well good afternoon to you fine Sir! And if that ain't the prettiest little piece of skirt I’ve ever seen, then my name ain’t Harry Fischer,” said he, referring to my companion.” What gives me the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”  
“If it is a good afternoon or not could certainly be discussed, Mr. Fischer, however, we would like to speak to your wife, Betty,” said Sherry.  
“Please, call me Harald! I am afraid she ain't at home at the moment,” Mr. Fischer answered. “But please, come join me on the porch for some sweet tea; Sophie makes the finest iced tea in all of Chickasaw county! Sophie, honey, would you be a darling and whip us up a batch of that sweet tea of yours?”  
She was a young, pretty woman, her hair made in a long french braid, dressed in a red checkered dress, wearing a bracelet with small silver angels at her wrist. She came down the stairs carrying a tray with three glasses and a pitcher, all made of the finest crystal.  
“So, this girl is your servant?” asked I when she had left.  
“Well, Sir, Sophie is my own little golden nugget, couldn't do without her. She has been of great service to me and my wife since our twins were born,” said Harald with a visible smile.  
“Exactly where did you say that your wife was?” asked I.  
“She is visiting her parents, bless their souls.”  
Sherry and I exchanged glances as a silent understanding that we would not mention that we just two hours ago were visited by her distressed parents.  
“I see, does she have a good relationship with her parents?” continued I.  
“Betty is their sweet beloved angel,” Harald answered and laughed slightly. “There ain't a soul in all of Alabama who doesn’t love Betts.”  
“I see, does this apply for your golden nugget as well?” asked Sherry.  
His smile faded; storm clouds seemed to gather over his head.  
“Now ma’m, I do believe my southern hospitality only stretches so far. It would be best if you’d leave now. Go on home.”  
He rose, turned and entered the mansion, locking the door behind him. We sat stunned for a second, it had all happened so fast. It was obvious that something was very wrong with this case.  
“Well, Watson, we better do as the man says and leave, but this will not be the last time we pay Mr. Fischer a visit.”  
We got into the automobile and drove away, but when we were supposed to take right on main road Sherry took a left towards Huntsville town centre.  
“Are we not supposed to drive back home?” asked I.  
“Not really, we got some more business to take care of,” Sherry answered with a convincing voice. “Let’s find something to occupy ourselves with until it gets dark.”

We found ourselves in a roadside establishment which served pancakes with syrup. We sat down and ordered.  
“Besides the obvious lie about Betty visiting her parents, did you notice something strange about Mr. Fischer?” asked Sherry.  
“There is certainly something strange about him, but I cannot quite put my finger on it. And of course, why would he talk about his wife in past tense?”  
“I have a theory on what might have happened to Betty neé Baker, but I am not yet sure. Therefore, I fancy I need to pay the Fischer Plantation a nighttime visit.”  
“Can I be of assistance?”  
“Your presence might be invaluable.”  
“Then I should certainly come.”  
“Full disclosure, I cannot promise this will be a safe mission. You ought to bring your pistol, and keep the safety off.”  
“A little bit of excitement never scared me.”

Once again we were sitting in the automobile, driving through the night towards the plantation of Mr. Fischer. Half a mile from the premises, we parked the automobile just off a forest backroad and covered it with some branches, and made our way towards the plantation on foot.  
“See if you can find out something about our mystery man and his beloved nanny,” said Sherry. She seemed eager to go somewhere else.  
“Are you not coming with me?” I asked.  
“ You go have a look at the main house Watson, I’m going to the chapel. There is something else I need to investigate,” said Sherry and hurried away towards the little chapel on the plantation. 

As I walked towards the main building, I saw that the light was still on in the master bedroom. I heard a strange sound, almost like a moan. I decided to hide in some shrubbery to take a closer look and find out where the moan was coming from. And then I saw it, from the second window from the left. The inside of the windowpanes were filmed with condensation; I could only see the contrast of two hands pressed against the window. And there was something else, a bracelet with small silver angels rhythmically banging against the glass. I walked around the house to get a better angle through another window. Then I saw it.  
“I am gonna take you to heaven,” shouted Harald as he kept thrusting. I could see beads of perspiration pouring down his forehead, his eyes squinted with pleasure. 

This was certainly a new development, I thought for myself. I walked back to the automobile, where Sherry stood, a distraught look on her otherwise calm face. “My dear Watson, there seems to be a young woman crucified in the church! It seems Mrs. Betty has been nailed to the wall!”  
“Let’s say that she is not the only woman being nailed this night,” replied I.  
Sherry looked back at me, a smirk on her face.  
“I suppose you have stumbled upon Mr. Fischer and his nugget then?”  
I decided not to inquire further how she had already guessed, I knew Sherry well enough to know that she would not explain until she felt like it.  
“Yes, I even walked around the house to get a better angle,” answered I.  
“You dog, why?” Sherry bursted out.  
“It was for detective purposes,” I answered quickly.  
“I think it’s time we give the police a call,” said Sherry. “Perhaps now they will take this matter seriously.”

As the sun went up, the state troopers pulled in, as always lead by their chief officer Lestrade.  
“We'll take it from here”, said Lestrade, spitting a wad of tobacco on the ground.  
I had always been bothered by his ferret-looking face, his whole demeanor that of a cowardly animal, ready to sneak away at first sign of danger. He did not look like a man that could be trusted with sticky situations. 

“This is the work of the LaVey family,“ cried Lestrade, when he first saw the crucified woman. “Those wretched, Satan-worshipping, ungodly excuses for human beings. 50 years they’ve lived here, disturbing the peace, threatening well-behaved citizens. I wish I could just lock up the whole bunch of ‘em!”

In daylight, the corpse seemed almost unreal, the blood had dried and formed bizarre stripes along the naked body of Betty Fischer. One would think that just the crucifixion would be cruel enough, but someone had taken their sweet time with the girl. Not many centimeters of skin remained untouched, she almost looked like a single, gaping wound. Though somehow her hair was still remarkably clean, still as blond and flowing as any normal day. 

“It’s clearly a hate crime, the LaVey’s over at their destitute farm have always resented the Fischer family for their wealth and closeness to God,” continued Lestrade, and pointed towards Mr. Fischer sitting in tears at the steps outside his house, “the poor gentleman is destroyed, he truly loved his wife.”  
“Why God?! Why did you send ‘em LaVey’s to take her away from me? Was it because I loved her too much?” said Mr. Fischer, his eyes filled with tears. ”I know she is in a better place now, but those ungodly creatures need to pay for what they did! They’ll hang for this, or so help me God!”  
“A little bit over the top, don’t you think?” said Sherry amused to Lestrade “Surely, you can not believe this farce?”  
“Sherry, I am the first one to admit you are good at what you do, but sometimes things are just what they seem,” Lestrade said, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.  
“Sometimes things are what they seem, sometimes they are not,” said my companion,” Watson and I will pay the LaVeys a visit before you brutes bust in on their farm.”  
“No dice! They are cold blooded killers, you saw what they did to the late Mrs. Fischer.”  
“I know how to take care of myself. Watson, ready to meet some hillbillies?”

We got in the automobile and headed for LaVey’s farm. As soon as we got there, a man walked towards us with an angry look. We immediately assumed this man was Rolf, a chubby pig of a man, descended from a long line of excessive inbreeding; he was wearing a filthy vest and had his unwashed hair in a pony tail. He had been living there, in the outskirts of Huntsville for the last 50 years, where he had been building his empire on dirt and brewing moonshine. With an army of drooling children and grandchildren, he was a feared man in all of Northern Alabama, and a lot of people wanted to see him hang, not least Harald Fischer who hated Rolf LaVey and his incestous family for their ungodliness. In the distance we could see groups of people scattered throughout the farm, most of them watching us with hollow stares. “How long since he had a proper meal?” I thought, watching a boy, no older than seven years of age, playing with some rusty old cans. I could clearly see the ribs through his torn shirt. 

“Get that damn thing off my property,” Rolf shouted, waving towards me. “Why are you trespassing?” he continued, still shouting.  
“My name is Dr. Watson and this is my companion detective Sherry Holmes.”  
“A woman detective and a negro Doctor? Trespassing on my lands? HAHA, is this what my America has come to? Janice, get me my rifle!”  
“Now Mr. LaVey, don’t be stupid,” sighed Sherry. “The North won in 1865, you need to mind your manners.”  
“Well, what do you want?” muttered he.  
“Have you been poking around at the Fischer’s lately?” Sherry asked.  
“ ‘Em religious maniacs by the plantation up yonder Choctaw Creek? Well hah, so what?” replied Rolf.  
“We sadly found Mrs. Fischer dead last evening,” said I “Nailed to the cross in her own family’s chapel.”  
“I am glad to hear that she is dead, crucifying that lil’ bitch is something I have been wanting to do for ages, sorry I can't take the credit for it. Please tell me they pinned ol’ mate Preacher up next to her?” he laughed a toothless grin. It actually looked like he meant it.  
“Mr. Fischer is still alive, and he loves you every bit as much as you love him,” said Sherry, and continued “I’m sure we will meet again Rolf. Perhaps when your next batch of Moonshine is ready to be sold.”

Walking back towards the automobile, Sherry turned to me.  
“What do you make of all this, Watson?”  
“Well, that place is not suitable even for a rat. The whole bunch reeks of inbreeding, I looked around and there is not a single shoe in that damn farm over size five. I suspect they suffer from pes equino varus adductus, or in layman’s terms; undeveloped, tiny feet.”  
“Well spotted, my dear Watson.”  
At this point, Lestrade emerged from the forest, with him a group of armed sharp shooters.  
“So, now we can send the whole lot of them to the gallows?” said Lestrade eagerly.  
“Well, they are guilty to a lot of things, but the LaVey's have not killed the wife of Harald Fischer,” said Sherry. “As my dear companion Watson here just pointed out, the entire family suffers from teeny weeny tiny feet, due to centuries of inbreeding. There is no branch of detective science which is so important and so neglected as the art of tracing footsteps, and the footsteps coming out of the chapel where Mrs. Fischer was killed are not tiny. Instead, they seem to belong to a rather large man and a normal sized woman.”  
“Dang it. If not LaVey, then who? No one else in the area had a reason to hate the Fischers. This is proving to be a real pickle.”  
Sherry gazed off into the distance with a blank stare, as she usually did when she had an almost complete puzzle, but was lacking the last piece.  
“Why is she quiet?” asked Lestrade. “I presume she is lost as well.”  
“That could be so, but from my experience, when Sherry is quiet it usually means that she is on the verge of solving a case, not that she is lost,” said I.” When she is lost, she usually says so.”  
“Well, I just don’t know what to do. We’ve already interrogated the staff and members at the plantation, even that hat old crook they use as gardener.”  
“The gardener... Elementary! I am afraid you simply have not asked the right questions,” said Sherry. “I suppose we should have another look at the plantation, there is a person I would like to have a little chat with,” muttered Sherry, walking towards the automobile. 

We had found the gardener clearing weeds out of the flowerbed, and now Sherry had him sitting on the porch, looking flustered.  
“I don’t know what to tell you miss, the state trooper already asked all sorts of questions. Like I told them, I hasn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. This be a quiet place, we mind our own business and don’t disturb nobody.”  
“When did you plant those sunflowers?” asked Sherry, pointing at a small patch of sunflowers close by.  
“Actually, it was Mr. Fischer who planted ‘em flowers, this be the first time he has showed interest for this. The grief must’ve hit him hard.”  
“So he planted the sunflowers to-day?”  
“Well paint me green and call me a pickle! He planted ‘em yesterday, so he must’ve felt the grief before Ma’am was dead. I take it God told him to plant these flowers, so that he would have fresh flowers ready for the funeral.”  
“Funny thing, God told me to look under these sunflowers, you see,” said Sherry, “hand me that shovel, will you?”  
“Well if God said so, I ain't no man to say against the big man upstairs.”  
“Watson, make yourself useful and grab another shovel, this will be a sweaty labour.”  
The heavy work of digging up that flower patch in the hot Alabama sun made my mind wander to when I was set to dig trenches in Afghanistan, and the gruesomeness of what we found buried made me think of the bloody battles I had seen; a white linen suit and a sun dress, all soaked in blood, and two big kitchen knives, wrapped up in a kitchen towel.  
“Well isn’t this surprising,” said Sherry, carefully lifting the knives. As she unwrapped them, a monogram of ‘B.F’ became visible, embroidered on the towels. “Unless Mrs. Fischer buried these herself, the murderer must have had access to the kitchen.”  
“Call Bernard and Nancy Baker, Watson. I have a feeling that we need to gather everyone for a little meeting. Be sure to get Lestrade as well,” said Sherry. 

A couple of hours later everyone was gathered in the living room of Mr. Fischer.The evening sun shone through the living room window, making everyone perspire.  
“Sophie, be a doll and fetch us a batch of that wonderful ice tea of yours. Our guests are thirsty,” said Mr. Fischer.  
Bernard and Nancy sat together in the red velveteen couch. In the corner Lestrade stood silently, looking at his watch.  
“Will this take long Sherry? I have some real matters to attend to.”  
“But a minute Lestrade, and you will find that you are thankful you stuck around.”

Sophie entered with a tray of tea and glasses.  
“Ah, Sophie. Could you be so kind as to do me a favour? Show the Bakers that beautiful bracelet of yours, I’m sure they will admire it,” said my companion.  
Sophie walked up to Bernard quite hesitantly and handed him a glass of ice tea, simultaneously showing him the bracelet.  
“Why would I be interested in a girl’s bracelet?” sighed Bernard, taking a sip from the tea.  
“Have a look Mr. Baker” repeated Sherry.  
Bernard slowly turned his head, glancing at Sophie’s wrist. Then, his face lost all colour, his lip started trembling.  
“Oh dear lord!” cried Nancy, standing up in a hurry. “That bracelet!” She then fainted, falling down on the floor. I rushed towards her and held her head in my lap.  
“Now what is the meaning of all this!” Mr. Fischer shouted angrily.  
“The bracelet! That bracelet is the one me and my wife gave our beloved daughter as a baptism present, Betty wore it everyday ever since!” cried Bernard, his eyes filled with tears.  
“I, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” stuttered Sophie.  
” You”, cried he, pointing at Sophie. “You robbed my daughter's grave!”  
Sophie just shook her head, turning towards the rest of the room.  
“I did no such thing,” cried she.  
“She is telling the truth, Bernard,” said Sherry. “There has been no grave-robbing.”  
“But, but...how? Where did you get my daughter’s bracelet you harlot?”  
Then, a realization seemed to strike him. His eyes lit up with a new sense of anger.  
“You killed her! It was you all along!”  
He lunged forward, grabbing Sophie by the shoulders and started to shake her.  
“Why? Why did you do it? How dare you?”  
Sophie had now started to cry, tears streaming down her pale face.  
“I’m sorry!” said she.” I’m so so sorry!”  
Harald stepped forward, pointing at her.  
“How could you? That was my wife you murderer! I loved her!”  
Sherry raised both her hands, calling for silence.  
“That’s it, enough of these shenanigans. Harald, would you like to explain about your sudden interest in gardening?”  
Harald had the look of a startled animal.  
“What do you mean, gardening? The sunflowers? I just felt like planting some sunflowers. They are nice flowers. Brightens up the place.”  
“Really?” said Sherry with a smirk. “So how do you explain these?”  
She held up the knives, together with the embroidered towels and a piece of blood-soaked clothing.  
“Yes, I did it!” cried Mr. Fischer. ”We did it! You can take your pesky laws of men and go to hell! I know, and God knows, that there is nothing standing between two people in love. ‘Til death do us apart’, I said that day, and I may be a someone who frees another from her earthly bounds, but I ain’t no liar, or so help me God! Do what you want with me, only God can judge me, and I know he judges fair.”  
“Before you get judged by God, you’ll be judged by Judge Pryor and the jury of Huntsville, and if I know Judge Pryor, you’ll meet God sooner rather than later,”said Sherry, as she took her last sip of the ice tea. 

Later, when the commotion had settled and the handcuffed Mr. Fischer and his nanny had been driven off to the police station, Lestrade walked up to my companion.  
“But Sherry, how did you know?” asked Lestrade, with a surprised look upon his face.  
“Lestrade, do keep up. One would expect that a chief officer should be able to not be an utter disappointment to the force. I first knew something was strange when I read the message Betty left for her parents; it took me some time to figure out what it was. After trying a range of different combinations, I realized it was a cipher and that only every three words should be read. Then the message read ‘He is sleeping with her I am worried’. After a visit to the plantation, it was not hard to figure out that ‘her’ in this case was the nanny, ‘his nugget’ Sophie. I remembered the curious case of ‘the Cabin Murders’ in Baton Rouge 1898, where a strictly religious man murdered his wife instead of divorcing her in order to keep his vows to God whilst still getting rid of his wife, and I suspected something similar was going on. When Mr. Fischer further lied about the whereabout of his darling wife, and referred to her in past tense, I was sure she was dead. So my dear companion Watson and I came here in the night time to examine further; I went to the chapel where I expected the body to be due to the fact that three sets of footsteps lead in, but only two sets lead out, and I sent Watson to get a glimpse of the new couple in their celebratory act. Nailing his late wife to the wall of the church was a seemingly clever move by Mr. Fischer; it made it look like a hate crime, and by doing so he would kill two birds with one stone by clearing his own name, and framing his mortal enemies over at the farm. When Lestrade mentioned the imbecile gardener, I suddenly remembered the dirt underneath Mr. Fischer´s fingernails, and the newly planted sunflowers. That was the last piece of the puzzle; with the buried murder weapons and the blood soaked clothing, we finally had a motive, a body and a murder weapon - the three pillars on which a murder case rests.”  
“Excellent!” cried I.  
“Elementary,” said she.


End file.
